


Seven Letters

by PartyLines



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Explicit Language, Horcruxes, Multi, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Rating May Change, Sexual Content, Strong!Neville, Strong!Ron, The Deathly Hallows, War, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 13:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17509199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartyLines/pseuds/PartyLines
Summary: An unlikely team face what's so far been an unwinnable war in the aftermath of tragedy.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Finally posting time. This story began years ago, before I'd really discovered fanfiction. As I wrote, I read, and I spent a lot of time changing things that I'd seen pop up in other fics, or that I didn't think would sit well with the audience. The result was awful, so here's my original tale, written as intended! Bits of this have been posted before - first at H+V, and recently on FFN. When I summoned the courage to write it the way it's supposed to be, I pulled it to rework, and here's the result!
> 
> This story has been outlined and in the works for years - I can promise I will not abandon it. I'm aiming for weekly updates, but I make no promises there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have lots of thanks to give here! First, to **arosesinnocence** from H+V for beta-ing my first attempt! It was no easy task! 
> 
> Huge, huge thanks also to my wonderful beta, **zoomzoomzuppa** , who helped me get this back off the ground and stayed patient with me when I changed my mind (again), to my amazing alpha, **bourbonrain** , for keeping me at it and working through some challenging bits, and finally, to my super pre-reader and cheerleader, **LadyKenz347**!

She runs without any thought of where she’s going—as if she’s still sixteen and not gone twenty. It’s not until the castle entrance looms dark before her and his hands are _on_ her— _he_ is on her—that she knows she’s been followed. Panting, she turns, and he slams her into the ancient oak panels—heavy; suffocating. His sizzling touch is familiar and foreign, terrifying and exciting all at once and she can’t help but cry out. Her head meets the steel-forged doorframe with a _clunk,_ but she doesn’t notice. The weight against her is suffocating and _liberating_ and her cries become sharp, sucking gasps. His hands are at her throat and they’re tight— _too tight_ —but they move to curl into her hair before she can scream. She doesn’t have time to be afraid and so she isn’t.

_She isn’t._

Her hands find his chest and she pushes him – push, shove, _move_ – but he won’t budge. She reaches for her wand. It’s at his throat and her tongue searches for a curse as her knee finds his groin, but he’s too fast; too skittish. Pausing for a moment to draw a deep, desperate breath, she can feel his fill her lungs, and she stops.

Frozen.

Confused.

With his gentle fingers closed around her her wrists, he waits until her eyes find his. She calms, wondering how she could _possibly_ have not known it was him—though she didn’t know it _wasn’t_ either. She’d let down her guard and turned her back on the enemy. She was foolish, and he should scold her, but he doesn’t.

He waits.

She wonders if he plans to wait forever.

Sometimes it feels as though he might.

Fumbling over himself and their entwined limbs, he moves forward; unsure. She swallows, and it feels as though she’s swallowing _him_ because her throat is filled with the smell of his sweat and fear and insecurity. She stares at him and knows what he wants but can’t help thinking about his God- _awful_ timing. He’s had what feels like forever and he chooses now. Now, when a war is raging, and people are fighting and dying and killing.

He backs away—just a step—and she thinks maybe he’s changed his mind, or at least realised how _crazy_ this is. The gap between them closes—one step and he’s on her again. His arm is tight around her waist and his other hand weaves knots in her damp, smoky hair. Her world turns to grey as he locks his eyes to hers and he’s kissing her and she’s kissing him back. He’s sweet, and tastes like salt and firewhiskey and dry, stale noodles. It’s nothing like she imagined. He’s timid and desperate and suddenly _sure_ all together and his hand jumps from her waste—his fingers cool when they find her face. Her grip tightens around him and in that moment, she wants to know how it feels to be _under his skin_ , because that’s the only way she could ever be close enough.

_Closer, closer, closer._

He’s rough and his teeth leave blood on her lip but she doesn’t care. Tears roll in dusty drops down her face and her hand falls from his neck to his hip—pulling, tearing—and bunches in his blood-smeared shirt. The other one scrambles upward—broken nails scraping his jaw, his cheek, his brow—tugging on hair before she forces it down to his chest. His heart thumps out of rhythm under her palm and all she can think about is _closer, closer, closer_. He pulls back and his name tumbles from her tongue in heaving reverence.

“Draco.”

She’s breathless and doubts he hears her but it doesn’t matter; nothing matters. He’s given her _everything_ because one glimpse of a world where _nothing matters_ is an oasis in this nightmare and she clings to it with every claw of hope she can muster.

She waits for him to run—to flee back to the battle or away altogether—but his head drops to her shoulder and she realises that he’s crying too.

Now she’s _afraid._

She’s more afraid than she’s ever been, because this slice of normal is so far from it that she flails under the weight of reality as it comes crashing back down on top her. He’s whispering, frantic, and his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else; like it belongs to _anyone_ else in any other time. It reminds her of Harry’s recounting of the night in the Astronomy Tower so very long ago, and she wonders if he’s reliving it now, a hundred feet below. In this moment, he _is_ the sound of terror, and somehow she knows it’s more. With a soothing stroke against his jaw, she buries her face in his neck and breathes peace on his skin.

He pulls away—his eyes finding hers once more—and she feels as though he’s looking into her soul _._ It’s almost impossible to hold his gaze, but she does. The heels of his hands rush to his eyes and he’s rubbing and sniffing and pulling it together. He laces salty, wet fingers with hers, and between the rush of blood in her ears and her pounding heart she almost doesn’t hear what he says.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. There’s shame in the slump of his shoulders, but she believes him and smiles as the moment fades.

Turning away from her, Draco drops her hand and with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, allows his leaden feet to carry him back to the team. Unable to abide by reluctance, Hermione snaps hold of his wrist and darts past him at a run; lends him her courage. They don’t get far before they see that Ernie and Luna are back, and the _whole_ Order has come with them. Guilt burns at her insides and laps at the corners of her eyes when she sees that the battle is fierce and bodies already scatter the moonlit ground.

She doesn’t have time to panic as Draco is already screaming curse after curse just steps behind her. She presses her back into his and she’s quick with her wand. Stun. Vanish. Stun. Vanish. It’s her trademark now, and even though she _knows_ that Draco’s right and it doesn’t mean she’s clean, it allows her to sleep at night and that’s become enough. Suddenly she’s face to face with Dolohov and Draco weaves his hand behind him—crushing hers—because he’s seen the bastard find her and he _knows._ She tries to shake herself free—explaining and reasoning and cursing at Draco over her shoulder—but he just shakes his head and holds tighter.

She’s filled with an earthshaking rage and thinks that _finally_ she understands Neville and his _Crucio_ madness, because she wants to make Dolohov pay for hurting her. In less than a second she makes up her mind, thinking that now is the perfect time to try it—the one thing she’d never managed to do. Raising her arm, she’s stuttering through the Avada before Draco spins around and has Dolohov writhing and twisting beneath his wand. She glares at him for taking her prize.

“Not you, Granger,” he says. “Promise me. Never you.” There’s a flash of _something_ in his eyes before he bows his head, and he sounds so _distraught_ that she forgets how angry she is and nods.

 

A stun and vanish and Dolohov is gone.

They fight back to back for hours and Dolohov remains the only Death Eater they’re able to name when the sun finally peaks over the mountaintops and they still—exhausted. Dawn has come, and everything they’ve lost so far—years and lives and humanity—have lead them to here to this moment, and it’s _time._ Theo limps back to their group, but Ernie and a hundred more are dead; gone with the countless others they’ve already lost. It’s not worth it. It _can’t_ be worth it, but there’s no use in dwelling on what can’t be changed, and they stand tall.

The air is filled with hollow, reaching laughter and empty threats as Harry and Riddle begin. Jets of red and violet, orange, teal and bright daisy yellow strike life and death into the blood-red sunrise above them. So many colours, but no green. Not yet. This is all for show—nothing more than a display for their followers—and Hermione feels the bile rise in her stomach again. Harry’s fear in the face of his would be, should be, _should’ve been_ death shakes him, and he only just sidesteps a golden stream of white-hot screams.

With a swish of blue robes and a crunch in the dirt, Riddle ducks the too-kind stunner that Harry throws in desperation. Behind her, the Aurors are growing restless and the Order falls into rank awaiting their signal that Hermione knows will never come. The black-cloaked men across the field are even more impatient, and one steps past an invisible line in the sand and is struck down by his leader; a careless curse flung over Riddle’s shoulder.

There’s still no green.

Draco steps up beside her and takes her hand, and there’s a tremor in his that she hasn’t felt in a long while. She wonders if she’s underestimated his thirst for vengeance, or perhaps she’s just never understood the depth of his vendetta. Not really. She turns to him, seeking comfort or truth or _something_ in that wild sea of grey but he won’t let her in. His eyes still follow Harry—enraptured. Enraptured just as she should be but isn’t. She can’t watch— _won’t_ watch. Not anymore.

She’s had enough of this; enough of war.

She watches the flashing colours of the match, but she cannot watch the players. Two feet in front of her, Ron is ready to cast his practiced, practiced, practiced shield over his best friend if things fall apart, his wand trained squarely on Harry’s back. Neville and Theo stand to his flanks— _his_ protection, _his_ backup—and she scowls when she remembers that she and Draco have orders to stand aside. They’re backup for backup and nothing more. She steps into Draco, not caring about the eyes she feels on the back of her head. She grasps at his robes and he stiffens before wrapping an arm around her. He’s her partner, and if after everything they can’t be friendly then the world will never change and it’s all been for nothing.

The duellers step closer and she knows that time must be running out. Her head almost bursts with the voice of her Divination Professor and for the first time she can feel real life and prophecy meet.

 “ _Neither can live while the other survives.”_

She shivers and the arm around her tightens as though it’ll never be able to touch her again. Draco leans in, rigid, and the tremor in his hand becomes a convulsion against her hip.

“Close your eyes, Hermione,” he whispers— _pleads_ , desperate and needy—and drops his arm away from her.

She does. The tender softness in his voice is unrecognisable and raw and she can’t _not_ listen. And then his warmth is gone from her and he’s shouting. She can hear his voice, but the words don’t reach her brain before it’s there.

_Green, green, green._

There’s a scuffle and a ring of broken cries, and the man beside her is gone. All she can see from beneath lidded eyes is green light, and then she hears the feet of a hundred attackers behind her. She jumps and quivers before she realises that they’re _allies_ and not attackers and _something is wrong._ When she opens her eyes and sees in clarity she hasn’t had in years the words finally sound in her mind.

Riddle is _gone_ , and Neville is still standing splay legged, his wand directed to an empty spot on the field. It’s all wrong. It should be Harry. _Where’s Harry?_ She finds him with Draco— _beneath_ Draco, who’s heaving, gasping, choking. He’s on his knees and even as he shudders, there’s defiance in the light of his eyes; defiance in the way he holds his hands over his head. They’re empty. No wand. She spots it beside him—on the other side of Harry—and for a moment she wants to screech at him to pick it up; tell him it’s not safe. Something stops her.

Draco is waiting. Waiting for something in the kind of way that one waits when they’ve always known it will come. She breaks then—screams at him to pick up his wand—as the Death Eaters begin to move in: slow, cautious, uncertain. When he doesn’t, she _knows._

Harry is dead.

Draco killed him.

All along he’s been waiting—biding his time—and his timing is _awful,_ but he’s done it.

He’s killed the-boy-who-lived and his show of defiance is for _her,_ daring her to question him. His words echo in her ears and she’s glad that Ron has stumbled over to wrap himself around her because it’s too much.

_“Close your eyes, Hermione.”_

She screams again—twisting and writhing in Ron’s grasp—trying to break out of the hold so that she can get to him. To Harry. To Draco. She doesn’t know.

_“Avada Kedavra.”_

It was quiet and levelled and she refused to hear it but that’s what he said. The voice she was so soothed by was _murdering_ her best friend and their only hope. Somehow, amidst the chaotic revelation of truth, Riddle is _gone_. Had Neville killed him, or had he fled? It should matter, but it doesn’t now.

Harry is dead, and Ron is keening like an animal, and Draco—

Draco is in magical chains. He’s stumbling and staggering but so willing in his capture as he stands bound between four Aurors and caged in a circle of Order members. They’re her teammates; _his_ teammates, and they’re shocked and broken because he’d fooled them all so well. She can see it. It’s there in fragments between filthy arms and raised wands. The Dark Mark. _His_ Dark Mark. As her eyes land on his, he manages to roll up his sleeve with the fingertips of his right hand and frame it for them all as if they don’t know what he was; what he _is._ They’ll never forget it now. Through the agonising, crippling understanding, Hermione knows that for the first time since they met, Draco has just made himself _relevant._

They’d trusted him. _She’d_ trusted him and watching his lip curl in a sneer is what finally breaks her. She breaks for everyone who’s suffered for this. For Riddle and his power crazed madness. She breaks for Harry and her friends, her family and herself. She breaks for Draco, because she knows that he’s wrong and that he never was his father’s son. She should’ve told him. Maybe then this moment would be different.

Even through her mind-splitting, soul-scrambling grief and confusion and fear, she knows it wouldn’t. He’d never have listened. Dumbledore had been wrong about him. _She’d_ been wrong about him. No matter how much she tries to ignore it, she knows that when she cries as he’s executed, it’ll be that much _worse_ because she’ll know that it _is_ just, and that loving him doesn’t mean he’s not one of _them_. She’s been so stupid—so stupid to believe that love and need can make someone into something they aren’t. And God, there it is. She _loves_ him. Just before she shuts down completely she thinks that _she_ must be the twisted one—to love such a man. But still, she’s sure that she does. As she watches a dishevelled, sobbing Hagrid scoop up Harry, and Draco in his chains—escorted between officials who aren’t even close to being in touch with this war—she crumbles.


	2. Two

Hermione sits in the worn-down parlour of the ancient Black Family house, surrounded by team members and absolutely alone. Her ashen face and grim expression are hidden beneath the matted hair curtaining her bowed head. Energy and excitement and vigour are all gone, and all she can do in the moment is stare at her hands as they refuse to stay idle. Her trembling fingers churn knots into her bloodied clothes and her knuckles are stark white from the strength of the grip she keeps. She can hear the bustling of the Senior Order in the kitchen—desperately trying to regroup—but she’s not interested in joining them. It’s only been three days since Harry’s death and Draco’s incarceration, and she still can’t shake that bone-deep feeling that it’s all _her fault_.

“Hermione?”

The voice is hoarse and rubbed raw from agonised cries, but she could never not recognise that precious note of hope that _just_ takes the edge off the angry undertone. She lifts her head and is surprised at the pain that shoots down her neck in protest—she’s been still (tired, dormant, _useless_ ) for too long. “What is it, Ron?” she answers, ignoring the fresh stream of salty loss that trickles down her face and into her mouth. “News?”

She’s been waiting to find out what happened to Draco since she found herself numbly sitting on a dusty armchair with a cup of warm tea in her hand, instead of on the grounds of Hogwarts where it was fresh, warm blood. Ron looks exhausted—like he hasn’t stopped since the battle—and for a second, she feels the guilt of her inactivity rise like boiling bile in her stomach; feels the confusion of not knowing how to continue when her entire life has been about turning hurdles into targets, and targets into conquests. When she finally finds the courage to meet his blue eyes, they’re crystal—sharp and prodding and glossy with unshed pain. Something inside her shivers at his knowing, accusing stare, and she swallows and shakes her head. “Wait,” she stammers, forced to turn away. “Are you... are you—okay?”

 _Of course not_ , she thinks—it’s far too little, and far too late. She’s been stuck on the fate of the wrong person, but even as she realises it, she can’t make her need to know disappear.

Ron just grunts, sliding down the wall to sit beside her. Even as he stares at her, confusion and betrayal warring on his face, he wraps her in a strong, solid arm and drags her into his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs, whispers of his breath just skating over the top of her curls. “Yeah, there’s news.”

They sit together in silence for a long time, watching the rest of the team scramble around trying to look busy—trying to _be_ busy—so as not to be still for too long. Hermione wonders if they already know what she’s just begun to comprehend; if they already know that if they’re still for too long the grief will find a way to settle in, and they’ll risk becoming dull and tarnished—they’ll risk becoming just like her. Only when nightfall begins to shadow the room and darken the world on the other side of the windows does Ron give her a gentle squeeze and turn her face to his with one knarled, careful finger. “He’ll be executed at dawn,” he hums so that only she can hear. “Dawn tomorrow. Lupin’s doing it.”

Hermione says nothing at first, squinting and tangling herself in her arms to prevent the screams from slipping out. She’d known from the moment she worked out what happened that it was going to come. She’d known, and she’d spent the past three days locked within herself preparing, practicing, learning how to be without him, but no amount of preparation can lessen the blow when it finally comes. Gulping down her leftover emotions, she shrugs Ron’s arm from her shoulders and peels herself from the floor. It’s been three days, and she shakes herself off as she smiles tightly, brushing a grateful hand against Ron’s stubbled cheek as she grabs a chunk of bread from the table. “Okay,” she breathes, nodding and fighting against the roiling claws trying to spew from her and latch themselves around the neck of the messenger. “Okay.”

She can’t help but notice the flash of fear in her friend’s stony eyes as she makes towards the bathroom, and although it should frighten her, it’s empowering, and she finds herself standing taller than she has in years.

The claws coil back in upon themselves, and Hermione can almost _feel_ them purr somewhere inside her chest. As she clambers heavily up the stairs and slams the bathroom door behind her, she feels her breath grab in her chest; sharp pangs of guilt and rage and blind despair finally digging their way free from where she’s _almost_ managed to keep them caged. Shrugging out of her clothes—stiff with dried sweat and blood and more tears than she remembers—she mutters the charm to fill the tub and sinks to her knees beside it.

Harry is dead, and no one seems to _notice._  
  


They’re all running around like they can _fix_ something, when their only key to victory is gone, gone, gone.  She curses and mutters for the water to stop as she heaves her worn-out-body into the depths of the calm still of the bath. Streamers of red and brown and something dark like ash swirl from her skin in murky tendrils—muddying the water—and she feels her previously unwavering certainty that good will conquer shimmying away. Managing to block out the cacophony of rallying and wasted war cries from the floors below, she sinks up to her ears and feels the writhing anguish begin to bubble to the surface. During the years that’ve passed since Everything Changed, she’d grown so faithfully accustomed to turning to her partner for comfort, for something, for a ‘ _snap the fuck out of it, Granger,’_ and it’s all she wants to do now, too.

She can’t. It’s a pointless, dangerous wish, and yet she still finds herself picturing his raised brow and eye-roll; feels the cutting remark slicing her open, only to be healed instantly by a gentle hand on the small of her back. For a while, it’s as though he’s there with her in the room, and she doesn’t know if she’s imaging things or hallucinating from lack of sleep; lack of food; lack of everything.

“Draco.” She wants to call for him, but she knows it’s silly. “Oh, Draco, what have you done?” The tears begin to fall rapidly as the betrayal and hurt and _love_ settle underneath her skin. Reality is harsh and vile and cruel, and it comes crashing down on her and her perfect visions of a man who’s never been perfect a day in his life.

She knows what he’s done. It’s unfathomable; unbearable, but she knows. Thick, wet sobs shudder up from within her and she fumbles with the plug, desperate to be free of this new prison. She stands, still lightly covered in the remnants of the battle, and once more, everything changes. She dresses in her practical, plain Order robes, and walks with her head high towards the planning, without any of her former surety at all.

 

* * *

 

The air is cold and thick with rancid waste, and without any source of light, Draco can’t see past his own hand. He stumbles as he tries to get his bearings; reaches out to find the mossy, damp wall right in front of him. His other hand finds another beside him, and immediately, he knows where he is. Deep beneath a wearied Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, is a basement so decrepit he could scarcely believe it’d belonged to anyone, much less the revered Blacks. Potter had shown it to him—perhaps as a threat—when he’d first been introduced to Headquarters.

“Just in case,” Potter had quipped, his tone remarkably light, given the circumstances. Draco, reserved and still swimming in mortification at the idea of even being _near_ the damned Bird Brigade, had scoffed, and cast a shadowy _Lumos_ with his newly limited wand.

“What’re they?” he’d asked, noticing the narrow doorways lining the far wall of the room. “Looks a mess down here, Potter. What a disgrace.”

He’d never been officially informed of the row of solitary cells built neatly into the foundations of the home, but he knew they were there; knew the Order had constructed them and used them when they needed somewhere to store temporary prisoners. The irony of their location wasn’t lost on him at the time, and still doesn’t fail to procure a derisive snort, even as he realises he’s finally being kept in one himself. Counting the strides from wall to wall (two one way; only one the other), he’s startled when someone coughs in the darkness.

Light bleeds into the black, just as it’d done when he’d lit his wand on that first evening, and the face of Remus Lupin appears, eerily distorted by the blinking shadows. “Malfoy,” he says evenly, stepping forward so that he’s standing right outside the barred door. “Good morning.”

 _Is it morning?_ Time’s been meaningless from the second the _Avada_ left his lips, and Draco has no idea how much of it has past. The dreamless sleep had kept him quiet, and hours may have been days; perhaps even weeks for how starving he is. “Ah, Remus.” He settles his gaze upon the man before him in one final show of defiance—refusing to show the terror chewing at his flesh. “What do you want?”

“You know why I’m here, Malfoy.” Remus’ voice is soft—too soft given his answer—and it chips away at the bravado in Draco’s stance. “Surely, you knew what would happen when you hatched such an outrageous plan?”

There’s a slight waver in his voice, and Draco grabs it, clutching it tightly to his chest, as though it’s the only thing that might save his life.

Perhaps it is.

He scoffs. “They sent _you?_ Why on earth would they send _you_? I thought this was Flint’s job now, or one of the Weasleys’. I can’t imagine you’re—”

Remus cuts him off, unlocking the heavy door with an iron key the size of his fist. “Be grateful it’s me, Mr. Malfoy. This could be a lot worse for you otherwise.”

The door clangs open, and Draco knows he’s right. At least Remus is gentle; merciful, though whether that stands after the death ( _murder, murder, murder_ ) of the Chosen One, he doesn’t know. The door opens wide in front of him, and the temptation to flee burns hot in his veins, even though he knows he’d never make it past the rest of them to the door. A thought glows in the recesses of his mind—building, shaping—and he knows there’s something he needs to do before it’s all over. “Remus,” he barks, but his soon-to-be executioner is busy rustling through his jacket pockets, his prisoner seemingly forgotten. “Remus!” Draco tries again, shoving him with a trembling hand as he does so. “I need to see her. I need to see her, now.”

Remus looks up from his fussing and his shoulders sag with the sigh he releases. The circles beneath his eyes have darkened since Draco last saw him; the hollows gouged deeper. “Son, I cannot allow that to happen,” he says. “You know that.” There’s a sorrow in his voice that seems misplaced—almost apologetic. “I can’t allow you up those stairs. I _won’t_ allow you to break her further.” His gaze is hard, but the words are gentler than Draco deserves.

With his heart jolting into a panic, Draco nods slowly. His breaths are fast and short now, and he feels the frenzy of understanding kicking in. “Right. Fine. But—tell her something?” he asks, ready to drop to the floor and give in before the choice is taken from him. “Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her that, Remus,” he says. “I am. Sorry.”

Remus nods and unsheathes his wand from where it’s hidden against his bicep, and the last thing Draco sees is a blinding flash of green light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a bit of luck, chapters should be coming thick and fast now! :)


End file.
